


Cheating on France

by orphan_account



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Confessions, Consent, Conversations, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Getting Together, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Montparnasse/Jehan mention, Mutual Pining, Nonbinary Jehan, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 18:11:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13641723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: In which Combeferre has a debate, Enjolras really needs to get some stuff off his chest, Grantaire drinks grape juice while making occasional sassy remarks, and Jehan shimmies with several small flags in their shirt. There’s also holding hands and kissing and feelings, just so you know.





	Cheating on France

“But that’s the thing, Enjolras. How are the common people supposed to enlighten themselves if they’re uneducated, and how are they supposed to _become_ educated if there isn’t a compulsory, government-funded school system? It goes in circles—tyranny and oppression won’t stop unless individuals become educated, but they won’t become educated until tyranny and oppression stop—”

“Resistance can’t be properly learned in schools. It’s an innate reaction to the suffering of a people. It’s a matter of _reason_ , Combeferre—of simple common sense and nothing else.”

“Maybe in Paris, sure, but not in rural France; they see people like us as a threat to the church, and they have good reason to after Robespierre, after his cult—”

“But this isn’t Robespierre anymore, and it’s long past Louis XVI. This is Louis- _Philippe_ , and—”

“God save him,” interjected Grantaire, tilting his glass towards his friends slightly. They startled at his voice like they’d forgotten he was sitting there and then continued their discussion in hushed voices, like adults after the children had been put to bed.

“What I meant,” continued Enjolras, his voice low but insistent and hurried, “is that we’ve learned from the past. Separation of church and state are crucial. But so is freedom of religion—we’re against mandating what a citizen can or cannot believe in regards to God or the lack thereof; that’s the point.”

“Yes, but those are minute details that an average person—a farmer, for example—won’t be able to grasp until they are educated,” Combeferre countered. “People are scared. They’re hopeless. They see no end to their suffering—revolution, no revolution, it really makes no difference in their minds.”

Enjolras lay his head on the table dramatically, sighing to himself. “I know…” he began, a hint of uncharacteristic helplessness in his voice, “I know you’re right. But what are we supposed to do about that? How are we supposed to open people’s eyes if they don’t want to see?”

Combeferre had no answer, but he was a little worried for his friend. Enjolras always insisted that time was a powerful weapon, that people— _all_ people—would see reason eventually and appreciate the obvious benefits of representative government. This type of behavior from him was unusual, and there was really only one thing to be done when Enjolras was acting unusual. Combeferre caught Grantaire’s eyes, silently pleading.

The cynic helpfully extended his glass to the back of Enjolras’ head. “Would you care for some, Apollo? It’s very decent—quite angular, bright, hint of oak…”

“I don’t drink,” came Enjolras’ muffled reply.

“That’s… does he know that it’s grape juice?” Combeferre whispered to Grantaire, resting a hand on his back familiarly. “Do _you_?”

“Don’t remind me,” Grantaire rolled his eyes.

“How’s that going, by the way? You seem to be in good spirits about it. As good as your spirits get, anyway.”

“It’s not like I have a choice in the matter. Eponine said she’d confiscate my paints if I didn’t quit, and that girl—I love her, but making her angry?” he exhaled sharply. “I don’t fuck with that.”

Combeferre pinked slightly at Grantaire’s word choice. He had always been so sensitive to swearing in an oddly endearing way. “Well, good for you anyway?”

“I was fine with a ruined liver. I was happy. What did Joly have to go and dig up all those studies for?”

“Peace of mind. Your physical and mental health. Your safety.”

“Point taken, mother.”

Combeferre just laughed and stole a sip of juice from the glass before pulling on his coat and adjusting his cravat slightly. He turned to Enjolras, who had returned to a more upright position sometime during the last minute. “Are you feeling alright?” he asked. “I’d love to stay for longer, but Courfeyrac is expecting me, I believe.”

“I’m fine,” Enjolras said, an expression on his face like he’d just been sentenced to death.

“Uh, are you sure?”

“ _Vive la République_ ,” he masterfully changed the subject.

“I’ll see you next time. _Vive la République_ ,” Combeferre echoed, giving a small salute and turning to Grantaire with a meaningful look of _make yourself useful and see that he doesn’t get into trouble_ as he braved the streets of Paris.

It was now that Grantaire noticed that absolutely nobody else was in the room.

He wasn’t sure how it happened, really. Everyone knew that Enjolras would sometimes discuss various issues with Combeferre after the rest of the group left, but Grantaire had never planned to sit around and watch them talk for… it had to have been hours by now. But hey, since he was here, some alone time with his Apollo wasn’t strictly _unwelcome_ ….

“Is that a pass on the grape juice, my dear?” he asked. “Just to be clear, it _is_ grape juice.” He would’ve been lying if he claimed he weren’t a little displeased that Enjolras hadn’t taken more notice of that fact—it was his fifth week in a row without so much as a sip of alcohol, and while that might not have been much for someone else, for Grantaire it was a miracle and a half.

They locked eyes for a second—a gray-green-brown that seemed unable to make up its mind and the most straightforward shade of blue—before Enjolras suddenly stood up and left the table, pacing from one side of the room to the other and swirling his hands in the air as if he were conducting a particularly unwieldy invisible orchestra. “God, Grantaire,” he mumbled, unreadable. “God.”

“I think I’ve heard of him before. Works for the Patron-Minette?”

“That’s exactly what I mean! So cynical, so snarky….” He pushed a hand through his hair and made a noise with the back of his throat that could have been frustration or anger or… maybe something else. But it couldn’t have been anything else. “Why are you here?” he asked, blunt as usual.

“To see my friends?”

“No, no. I mean, why are you here right now?”

“Um, I can just leave if you want to be alone….” Sure, and face Combeferre’s wrath if so much as a hair was plucked from Enjolras’ pretty head? No, Grantaire was staying. He stood up awkwardly and walked to where the other man had stopped pacing in a corner of the room, half-smiling because he didn’t know if this was all an elaborate joke that was going over his head.

“Don’t go,” Enjolras said somewhat forcefully, pressing a hand to Grantaire’s chest, which both of them observed for a second before stepping apart self-consciously. Enjolras took a breath and then continued. “Sorry. Please don’t go home just yet, that’s what I meant. I have some things I want to talk about with you. And I just like having you around me, really. That was what I was asking before—I was hoping you’d say you’re here for me right now, like I’m here for you,” he paused again. “Wow, I’m really bad at this kind of thing, aren’t I?”

“What?” Grantaire laughed. His stomach felt almost like it was fluttering inside of him, but he’d learned to ignore that feeling a long time ago.

“Please don’t make me get up the nerve to say all of that again.”

Grantaire surveyed Enjolras quizzically, taking in the nervous creases on his forehead, the circles under his eyes. “What’s the matter with you today? You’re acting strange. Discouraged, even.”

“I’m okay, really. I’ve just been thinking some things through.”

“If the next words that come out of your mouth are ‘I love you, Grantaire, and I always have. Also, fuck France, it’s the worst country,’ I’ll flip my shit.”

Enjolras bit his lip, fixing his gaze on the floor. “France is the best country,” he mumbled.

Then it clicked.

Grantaire took a step back, painfully aware of how hard he was blushing. “But you don’t… you don’t like me…. You don’t even look at me.”

Enjolras met his eyes purposefully, taking two steps forward to compensate for the space between them. “And I am so sorry for that. I tried to ignore you because I didn’t know what to do about you, and I wasn’t used to not knowing what to do. It made me feel angry and… and stuck,” he paused. “I know you think I’m quixotic and ridiculous, and I know you don’t really care about me—I wouldn’t expect you to. It was just so much easier to ignore everything, to push you away and hope you’d find some other revolutionaries in some other café. But you never left and it was getting harder and harder to deny what I felt towards you and I wondered why I was bothering denying it at all—better to just have it in the open and have you reject me so we can get on with our lives, right? So here we are. You can reject me now.”

Grantaire was struggling to keep up. “What does _quixotic_ mean?”

“Unrealistically, impractically idealistic,” Enjolras helpfully provided.

“Yeah, you’re pretty quixotic,” Grantaire shrugged, “but it’s part of your charm.” Enjolras started to protest, but Grantaire grabbed both of his hands before he could get the words out of his mouth. “You’re fantastic and remarkable and you scare me a little because I don’t know how I’m supposed to love you or tell you that I love you—oh, by the way, I love you. Since you haven’t noticed.” He paused, realizing what he’d done, what he’d said, the fact that Enjolras’ hands were now firmly in his own. His breath seemed to rattle in his lungs. “I’m so sorry.”

“Grantaire—”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for,” Enjolras grabbed Grantaire’s hands a bit firmer. “Nothing, okay?”

Grantaire just nodded, ashamed of his impulse to cry.

“I’ve been called incorruptible, you know,” Enjolras changed the subject because he apparently had no idea what to do with a sniffly cynic or illicit feelings actually being reciprocated. “People say I’ve never felt any desire except for the betterment of the entirety of France.”

“How noble,” Grantaire kicked Enjolras’ shin playfully. “For future reference, hugs work fine.”

“Noted,” came the dutiful response. “My point is that those people were entirely right until I met you, until I really got to know you.”

Grantaire gasped. “Are you saying that you’ll cheat on France? With _me_?”

Enjolras cracked the smallest smile and dropped their intertwined hands, tracing his fingers down the outside of Grantaire’s thigh lightly. “Preferably, I’ll do plenty of things with you….”

“No, that’s not okay,” Grantaire swatted his hand away, now grinning despite his still watery eyes. “I mean, sorry, touching me is okay—it’s more than okay—but you can’t be the smooth one in this… whatever this is. I’m the smooth one.”

“Right, sure,” Enjolras scoffed. “Have at me, then. Sweep me off my feet.”

“You are a strong, talented, courageous individual with a heart of gold and I’m extremely lucky to have you in my life.”

“Take me now, why don’t you?”

It was at that moment that Jehan descended the ladder to the attic while precariously balancing five boxes. “Hi, sorry,” they mumbled, their face redder than the small flag sticking out the back of their shirt. They must have put it there in a desperate attempt to transport everything in one load. “I didn’t hear anything; I didn’t see anything. Well, not that much of anything. Yes.”

“Jehan!” Enjolras said, strapping on his Stoic Leader mask just a little too late. “I didn’t know you were still here.”

“Yeah, I’m just getting the stuff all set for the rally—flyers and medical supplies and the like. You know how it is.” They untucked their shirt and did a strange sort of shimmy while still balancing the boxes in their arms, watching as several small flags fell out and reporting, “I also found several small flags.”

Grantaire didn’t know why Jehan was so bashful—he had his suspicions that his friend and that pretty boy from the Patron-Minette regularly got up to _significantly_ more indecent activities than the ones that had just occurred between him and Enjolras. But he kept his mouth firmly shut about that particular theory. “Can I help you with any of that?” he asked, indicating the boxes.

“No, I’m fine,” Jehan replied, their voice unnaturally high. They set everything down on a table at the other end of the room and then practically scampered to the door, appraising Grantaire and Enjolras and whispering a quiet, “Good for those guys,” to themselves just before leaving, closing the door a bit too hard.

Grantaire caught Enjolras’ eyes and smiled, noticing almost passively the familiar way his chest clenched. It still hadn’t sunk in that he didn’t need to be ashamed of that response anymore, that Enjolras was feeling the same thing. “It’s getting late,” he observed.

“You should get home. The city gets dangerous at night, you know.”

Grantaire was tempted to laugh. There were times when he forgot that Enjolras was the son of rich parents—still a little naive to what ordinary people knew and didn’t know. “Yes, Apollo. I’ll be careful.”

“Will I see you soon?” Enjolras’ voice was so fragile, so unsure.

“Yes,” Grantaire promised. “Absolutely. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow. We can talk about everything some more.”

“Or you could—if you wanted to, that is—you could walk me home?” In this circumstance,  _w_ _alk me home_ clearly meant _stay the night_.

Enjolras bit his lower lip to keep from smiling, his face still flushed. “I would… um, that would be… that sounds really good. Thanks.”

But Grantaire couldn’t wait through the ten minute walk to his apartment. He went to his Apollo’s side and smoothed that blond hair back as gently as he could. “May I…?” he began, meaning to kiss Enjolras’ cheek.

There was barely time to register Enjolras’ lips on his own—the impossible softness and warmth of them—before they were gone.

“Grantaire?” Enjolras breathed, stepping back.

“Yes, dear?”

“I think this goes without saying, but I love you, too.”

 


End file.
